


Little Boxes

by gimmeshellder



Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: Era 2, F/F, Pearl Solidarity (Steven Universe), agates are cops I guess, mutual pining prob, service industry mood, typical pearl baggage applies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:42:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26428825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gimmeshellder/pseuds/gimmeshellder
Summary: Lavender Pearl gets pulled away from her station, For Reasons.
Relationships: Original Gem Character(s)/Original Gem Character(s) (Steven Universe)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 23





	Little Boxes

**Author's Note:**

> I had a TON of fun working on the [Hundreds of Pearls zine](https://hundredsofpearls-zine.tumblr.com/) with a bunch of mad cool folks! Stock's out but I think there's still pdfs and charms...
> 
> I was lucky enough to get to use [T's](https://outerspace-iiinnerspace.tumblr.com/) pearl chars [Lavender and Sandy](https://outerspace-iiinnerspace.tumblr.com/post/615227223679647744/outerspace-iiinnerspace-modern-day-pearlmance-ok) whom I love and would die for
> 
> BIG THANKS to [ a_big_apple ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_big_apple/) for beta!

The atomic mass of neon is 20.1797 u and the Sirius system reaches up to 17,340 degrees Fahrenheit while the WR102 is 210,000 kelvin which is the hottest of them all, according to Lavender’s records. 

Not that they’re hers. None of it is, really. Not the desk, much less the lobby, much less the _building_ (2,438 meters tall), but every moment she sits here the information transmission emanating from somber black towers around her workstation constantly and idly shuffles through its droves and droves and droves of data, from old to new and from chemistry to military, and stores them up in neat files in Lavender’s gem, and then takes them out again, and reorganizes them, alphanumerically and by key term and by word count, so it’s all continuously available with the absolute minimum of processing delay. No one should have to abide a wait time.

Fidgeting beneath the desk does little to help. Much like trying to layer her own private thoughts over the top of the constant, nagging current of data -- her ideas just get bogged down again, or cut off in the middle, lead and platinum are resistant to the corrosive effects of hydrofluric acid, and just too tiring to try and finish. Apatite is harder than talc. When she was new she would quietly hum to herself, and yes, Lavender can tell you the precise year and composer of any provided title, but it’s just too hard herself to finish a melody all the way. She’s forgotten how most of them go. There are 73,345 rubies and 832 platoons of quartzes. 

The only thing that makes the swell of information slightly more bearable is visual stimulus, so Lavender spends as little time as possible with her eyes closed. This means many hours watching the desk. It consists of mostly hypertreated carbon with trace amounts of recycled concrete and measures 1,524 millimeters by 1,016 millimeters by 127 millimeters which gives it a volume of 196,644,768 cubic millimeters and that wasn’t even in her records but some morganite had to _ask_ one day and, well, now Lavender can’tvery well _un_ know. In the worst of the lulls she must stop herself from recounting every single increment. 

The glass doors slide open with an antiseptic chime ( _ping!)_ , and Lavender corrects her posture and expression by invisible degrees. The smile stretches. A topaz and her emerald. They take their time passing into the lobby, but even going slowly, the topaz’s steps rattle one of the statuettes lining the walkway (97% marble). 

Traffic normally picks up around this time. Lavender glances behind them, through the glass, outside. 

“What floor is Citrine 3X1-1 on?” The emerald begins before they’re even at the desk.

“The 71st,” the transmitter says through Lavender’s lips, “however --”

“Check again. That’s where we went _last_ time and she wasn’t there.”

It’s not technically a question. That means the information bank leaves Lavender to speak on her own. A few seconds pass. The topaz looks steadily from the desk to her emerald. A planck is the shortest meaningful unit of time. Lavender shifts, minutely. “I understand. But, you see --”

The emerald hisses a sigh through her teeth. “What a waste of my time. Are you functional?”

A supereon is the longest.

“... I am functional.”

“Tell me where to find her, then, and _don’t_ say the 71st!”

“Citrine 3X1-1 is on the 71st floor --”

“Oh _come on!”_

“-- of the _neighboring_ building,” says Lavender, cool, “.3km to the right when you exit the front entrance. There is a mauve awning lined with gold trim, and a placard by the entry that lists her name and floor.” Not that Lavender has ever been outside to see. 

The emerald stares. Then she straightens, clearing her throat before mumbling, “Well, you didn’t say all that last time...” The back of her hand thumps against the topaz’s side. “Quickly!”

They leave as laboriously as they came, and pass a group of nephrites filing in. They look harried, and panicked, and trickle in along with some other scattered gems. And the rush begins in earnest. 

Lavender’s asked for: possible replacement compounds for jet fuel. The most durable gem cuts. The distance to the closest star system. How many rubies would fit in an elevator. 

The smile stretches.

Lavender is halfway through an explanation of why a particular construction proposal had been soundly denied when the lovely sandy pearl appears again. She moves light-footed through the street. A bundle of roughhousing amethysts take up half the passageway (nearly shoving each other into the wall of plateglass), but she drifts easily into an enclave to let them pass before flickering into the lobby behind a gossipy flock of chrysoprase. No one turns. No one sees. She is utterly unnoticed, and lovely, like a page of parchment that’s slipped between the desk and wall.

“And what?” the peridot whines.

Lavender’s eyes rivet back. She blinks. Ouch. “... and so that particular plot lies upon a faultline that proves unsustainable for the intended purposes.”

“Unsustainable _how?_ ”

“Hundreds would die,” says Lavender. 

“Ugh.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Just tell me how to appeal.”

“The upper appellate court is located in the adjacent subdivision, and requires all the following documents…”

Only when the line dwindles to nothing does the sandy pearl get her turn. “Hello,” she says, dreamy, at the same moment that Lavender chirps “Hello!”

They smile for a moment. It’s quiet, in the lobby. Enough so that when Sandy places the package she’s been carrying on the desk, it makes a soft brush of a sound.

“Yes. Well… I’m supposed to find Prasiolite 59-0.” Sandy’s fingertips make a soft sound, too, when she dares to brace them lightly against the lacquered surface. “And I’ve just… whoops! Forgotten where to find her, again.” 

It isn’t technically a question. Yet. That means Lavender can prompt.“It seems that you have something you want to deliver.”

Sandy hums, nodding. “I _do..._ It’s a very important package. A bit time-sensitive.” Her eyebrows tug upward, half a fraction. “And highly confidential.”

“Well then.” Lavender’s lips twitch. “I can offer assistance in identifying it.”

The corners of Sandy’s eyes wrinkle, just barely, and her chin dips -- a helpless fit of giggles by pearl standards. (Lavender’s gem warms.)

“No, but thank you.” Steady, and tender. An early morning voice. Sandy’s lips pinch in the middle like she’s containing something that would _not_ bear being documented by internal storage. “Could you remind me where to find her?”

Not _too_ time sensitive, then. Lavender leans a little closer. The answer would come easily even without the transmitter summoning it to her lips. “Prasiolite 59-0 is at the northeastern corner court of the 103rd floor.” On her own, she adds, “You may be prompted for an entry code of 363639.” 

“Right, of course. Thank you.” Sandy’s thumb brushes the corner of the package. It rasps. “I’m sorry to ask so many times.” And then again. It’s a pleasant sound. “How many times have I asked you?”

“49,” Lavender answers. “And it’s no trouble! This time of day can make anyone quite amnemonic.”

“‘Amnemonic’… hm... I don’t know that one.” Only a pearl could hear the act in it. Sandy shifts so that her chin dips, and a lock of hair comes loose against her cheek in a soft comma of gold-and-grey. “What does it mean?”

“‘Amenomic.’ Adjective. Of, or relating to, a loss of memory or…” 

By the time they make it through a few more definitions, Sandy will need the entry code again.

Sometimes the smiles they give one another are the kind only for pearls. But Lavender’s cheeks ache with sincerity as she completes a summary reminder of how to operate the elevator. She glances downward as she does. Despite the 1,548,384 square millimeters of desktop, their hands are nearly close enough to touch. Oh. Oh, nearly. (Lavender’s gem warms.) They… they might even -- 

\-- but the _slam!_ from Agate’s fist has them both flinching.

“Dawdling? What is this?” She’s not boomingly loud, as agates go, but she doesn’t need to be -- Sandy has leapt back a clean meter into a trembling Diamond salute. “Move on!”

Sandy’s mouth opens -- then closes -- before she darts to the nearest open elevator, slots herself into the corner, and presses for her floor. Through the glass of the doors squeezing closed, Lavender can see the queasy apology on her face.

Then. She’s carried away. (At 3.7 meters per second.)

Agate wastes no time. She turns her stern gaze downward, boring into Lavender. “Who’s tampered with the database?”

Lavender’s smile is gone. She tries not to swallow. “No one.” 

“Your access hasn’t been compromised?”

“Not at all.”

“I received a complaint. You gave insufficient information.”

“I… have answered all questions.” It’s documented. Everything. There’s footage of every millisecond on file, even -- 16,000 googolbytes and counting. “They were dissatisfied with the response.”

Agate sucks air between her teeth. She peers behind Lavender to the austere slabs of the data towers. Which of course are perfectly fine. “You will perform to expectation. Do I need to explain that to you?”

Agates are directly involved in 37.5% of duty-related injury.

“... no.”

“Hm.” She seems satisfied, at least, that the towers are intact and undisturbed. “There’s been a disruption in other areas of the system. A cohort of peridots will be recalibrating for the next several hours, which means surveillance will be compromised.” Her glower circles back to Lavender like the last stroke of a second hand. “You are to alert me _immediately_ if you detect any suspicious behavior.” 

“Yes.”

“Or if your connection to the transmission is disturbed.”

“Yes, of course,” Lavender says, a bit too quickly -- data is rushing back in -- radio waves can contain energy of 4 x 10-10 eV.

“ _‘Of course’_? A thousand pardons, am I wasting your _time?_ ”

Lavender’s mouth opens, closes, tilts. Gamma rays can contain -- “... no?”

“ _Good._ I don’t have the time to be wasting your time. Or any of the other twenty of you. Do you realize how inconveniently placed you all are?”

The transmitter takes that one. “I’m unequipped to answer rhetorical questions.”

But Agate’s lost interest. “Nevermind. Just keep an alert at the ready.” She’s looming down at her holotablet, perhaps already moving onto the next problem on her list. Lines of strain deepen around her eyes for a moment, but even as she relaxes, they don't quite fade. As the doors yawn open to let her through ( _ping!)_ , she adds over her shoulder, “And by the Diamonds, clean your workspace.”

Lavender blinks. _Ow._ And looks down. 

The glass doors snugly close just as she yelps.

“Oh, stars.” The very important, very confidential package lay forgotten on the desk. “Oh, oh _stars_ …”

Sandy is on the 103rd floor, with Prasiolite, (prasiolite consists primarily of silicon dioxide no shut _up_ ), alone and empty-handed. First time offender shattering rates are between 7-18% depending upon position and Diamond designation.

White Diamond designees make up only 19% of all (Is she on the way back?) majority are designated beneath Blue Diamond (Does she have time?) whereas Yellow Diamond --

_Does she even realize it’s missing?_

The package sits not quite where Sandy left it. Perhaps jostled when Agate startled them both (it’s moved 3 millimeters to the left). 

The elevators sit much farther. 

Lavender has never left the desk. Not once. Of course not; this is her station, as much as it could be called hers. Some pearls follow their owners and some pearls are entrusted to move about, but the only other place Lavender has seen besides the lobby is the view through the glass doors. 

Agate said the surveillance would be disabled for at least a few hours. A crew of peridots would be coming along, no telling when for certain, peridots' unsupervised group numbers should never exceed 4 (lest they resort to infighting), but the more time that passes the less time there will be, and Sandy must already be on the 103rd.

The row of elevators sit silent; no light along the crest of numbers over each; Bismuth 5P-ZL originated the design for all mainstream large capacity elevators; the distance between desk and the nearest one is approximately 5.3 meters. 

After Diamonds, pearls are the most difficult gem type to create (Lavender reaches) due to their semi-organic composition and rather delicate constitution (Lavender trembles) and thus only 8-12 serviceable pearls are produced per cycle for a current total of 632 presently on Homeworld. But there is only one sandy pearl who comes by to ask questions she doesn’t need the answers to, who comes by just to talk -- just to talk to her -- and when Lavender grips the package her thumb rasps against the corner.

Were she a different pearl, with different duties and a designated owner, Lavender might dance. But her legs are unused to what she asks of them and nearly give out as she tremulously stands. The pounding, dizzying wash of fear (she is _abandoning_ her _station!_ ) doesn’t help, either, and she peers through the glass doors, awaiting Agate’s abrupt return -- 

She hugs the package to her chest and stumbles out from behind the desk before her courage can leave her. Five shaky steps towards the elevator, and an elbow pressed against the button (it lights up gold) -- and Lavender squeaks at a sudden dusty _pop!_ that seems to happen right behind her eyes, as though a plug was tugged free.

Air is suddenly difficult to come by. Lavender’s eyes dart around the lobby and her back presses to the wall by the call button, clutching the package even tighter… but it’s empty. The lobby. Of course it’s empty. These are the lull hours. No one has even passed by outside the glass doors since Agate left. 

… but it’s also… quiet. 

Lavender stands, with her back to the wall. Trying to steady.

Moments pass. And then a few more. 

And still: only quiet.

The elevator chimes beside her. The doors part. It’s cool, inside, but no temperature reading arrives. Lavender swallows. She takes a long, shuddering breath as she slips inside… and when she lets it out again, it’s all that she hears. 

_103._ The button lights up golden and the doors slip closed. 

In the glass, Lavender can see the faint reflection of herself: hunched, frazzled, clutching the package to her middle like it has its own gravity. She clears her throat. And does her best to straighten herself -- her posture, her expression. Smoothing down the lace of her skirt. It occurs to her that she has no idea what the 103rd floor holds. There could be more gems lying in wait, keen to report her for abandoning her post. It's a tremendous risk. _Foolish,_ even. Lavender doesn’t need an information bank to tell her that.

But Sandy, too. Up there somewhere. Alone, and empty-handed. Trying not to be stepped on. 

Lavender’s eyes close; it _hurts,_ but that way, she can see her. Instead of the flood of factoids and various atmospheric readings, she can think of what questions she might ask if the two of them had a moment together. A proper one, free of smokescreens, and with plenty of time.

_How much of Homeworld have you seen, walking by yourself?_

**100 _._**

_Do you have a favorite shortcut? A favorite place?_

**101.**

_Do you get cold when the light is low?_

**102.**

_Are you as lonely as I am?_

**103.**

The doors yawn wide.

The 103rd floor opens with a large, lush foyer: dimly lit, and carpeted rich with deep cranberry and navy blue. Air warm with perfume sweeps into the elevator, and when Lavender leans and squints down the left hall, she can see wispy lights that must lead to the main chamber. Somewhere, music plays. Someone sings.

… and something _clatters!_ from the adjoining corridor. Lavender nearly cuts a hasty retreat into the elevator -- but it’s her, it’s Sandy, stumbling around the corner and wide-eyed with fear.

“Oh!” she hisses, quiet, and whisks the last few meters to the elevator. Her shoulders sag in relief to see the package. “You…”

Both of them have to catch their breath. Just a little. Sandy takes a step closer, smile uncertain. 

Lavender steps to meet her. Maybe a little too close. The soft little comma is still untucked along her cheek. Or perhaps it's only come loose again in the panic. With no desk in the way, she can see tiny, tawny freckles peppered over the bridge of her nose. 

“Hello,” Lavender whispers, before she can stop herself. Maybe she can blame habit.

Sandy's eyes crinkle at the edges. She takes a breath to --

“ _Pearl!_ ”

They both jump. Prasiolite. Stars. The statuettes might be rattling, downstairs.

Lavender presses the package into the other pearl's hands without a word. And if she shivers a little when their hands brush, that’s knowledge for Lavender and Lavender alone.

Sandy’s searching. Searching her expression. It's tempting to stay, even a moment more, even just a planck, if only to give whatever she's looking for. 

But Lavender steps back again.

“ _Where is it?"_ All thunder. _"Don't tell me you forgot."_

Sandy breaks the gaze. “I… yes! Just a moment, please!” Her voice carries, melodic. She gives Lavender one last soft look through the glass. Her chin tucks just a fraction and her eyelids flicker once: _Thank you._ Then she turns, back towards the corridor. “It’s right here...”

The glass doors muffle the response. But Prasiolite’s voice sounds distinctly mollified as the floor rises, rises, and swallows up the foyer.

102\. 101.

Lavender leans, slow. Her brow meets the glass of the doors with a dull thud. It’s the only sound as the elevator sinks back to the bottom.


End file.
